


Genesis

by The_Amarathine_Carrion



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Agender Character, Asexual Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Autistic Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Comedy, Dysfunctional Dimisylvix, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Gay Dads!!! They are gay and in love!, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, Polyamory, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, they are clowns and we love to see it!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24297181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Amarathine_Carrion/pseuds/The_Amarathine_Carrion
Summary: Three dads, three kids, a can of worms and an unlimited supply of tomfoolery.When Mercedes and Annette convince Felix to attend a single dads support group, nobody is prepared for the Pandora’s box that is to follow.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Mercedes von Martritz, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have an agenda and it is to fill the fandom with as many gay dads in love as I can! Let’s start with these three stooges.

Felix drums his fingers on the side of the steering wheel, leering at the fourth yellow light in a row he’d been forced to stop for. The sleeves of his tracksuit were stiffened with the dried remnants of a fancy drink he didn’t want to know the name of, rolled twice up and over the loose silver watch that probably didn’t fucking work anymore. He smelled of cinnamon and sweet cream and pure, unbridled fury. He rolls a window down, screaming alongside KISS, trying not to gag at the overwhelming scent. 

That insufferable moron. He shouldn’t have bothered to go in. It was the first coffee shop he’d spotted on his way to where he’d parked his car last night—a little hole in the wall that looked like it’d been standing for a century, yet he’d somehow never noticed it— and Felix was just too tired to function without a cup. As soon as he’d ordered he turned around to find a waiting spot, and was promptly attacked by a brick wall. The ginger typhoon apologized, even bending over to him like he was a fucking Duke or something, but that didn’t change the fact that he was now wearing multiple cups of mocha-choca-cinna bullshit and whatever other spices the kids were currently raving over. Whatever. That wasn’t what had him steaming. The hands on his watch weren’t turning anymore. It had been Glenn’s. He’d worn it every day since he was fifteen and something told him not to throw it on when he realized he’d slept through both alarms this morning, but of course he didn’t listen to his _feelings_ — why would he ever?

He’d never forget the assailant. Not with hair like that. There’s no way the shock of red was natural— did he dye it? Why was he thinking about it so much? He wasn’t—he’d better not—going to run into him again. God, he was pissed. 

He’s also late, predictably. Twelve minutes and thirty-four seconds late according to the time clock, and the number gave him something intangible that was safe to throw his disgust at as he entered his office and yanked the cotton jacket off. He flung it on the spare chair across from his desk and didn’t bother looking for a new one to pull on. He’d suffer the consequences later. It was fall, but the year had only just started so the chill shouldn’t set in until after he got home. It looked like he was making a wonderful first impression at Garreg Mach High School, showing up scowling and stained, already receiving cocky grins and shitty stares from the seniors who thought they could get away with skipping first period. Not his problem to solve, but it was infuriating all the same.

He tells Annette so on his lunch break, wiping the sweat from his brow with the same jacket. He’d probably throw it away. It was nothing special. He’s no longer fuming after supervising three back to back periods of basketball with the Sophomores. He didn’t know what idiot had his position before, but they shouldn’t have needed such a thorough demonstration. Some of them didn’t even know how to _dribble_ correctly. It was going to be a long year. 

“How’s Dante?” He stuffs another bite of his cool mint low carb twenty-five grams of pure farm-fed casein free protein bar in his mouth. It tastes like shit, but it’s quick, and he was supposed to be setting a good example. Annette would be kept busy for a few minutes with her answer, and all she really needed from him was the occasional grunt. 

“Oh, he’s taking a nap right now, but Felix! You wouldn’t believe what he made for you earlier! It’s so cute, I just know you’ll love it. Mercie and I brought out the special pencils you got him for his birthday and he’s getting so good at remembering to outline first before coloring. Mercie baked you something so please come over and get it tonight before it goes stale!”

“Hm.” Felix swallows, almost coughing up a lung with how dry his throat felt. Could protein bars give you hairballs? He wouldn’t be surprised if they gave you ulcers at this point. His stomach churns, sloshing with the combination of multiple bottles of smart water and rectangular health scams. He eyes a thirty-two ounce blue Gatorade (Glacier Freeze, the only valid option) and resigns himself to it, popping the lid off but pausing when it reaches his lips to promise he’d visit. “I’m not in the best mood, but give me a few hours to relax after I get off and I’ll be there.”

“Sounds like you’re in the same mood you always are, Felix.” Annette giggles. She’s the only one who could get away with saying such a thing and she knows it. A thin smile that Felix only allows because he knows she can’t see or prove it exists breaks the cloudy conversation.

“I suppose you’re right.” He was feeling a little better after consuming something that vaguely resembled food and hydration. He’d probably burn off the rest of his bad attitude after more exercise; there were two periods left before he could gather his things and head home to take the shower he’d missed out on. Even after washing his hands and forearms, the phantom burn of coffee clung. “I’ll come, you don’t have to hound me like I’m sure you’re already preparing to do. No, don’t put Mercie on the phone I only have a few more minutes of lunch— _Ah,_ Mercedes…”

* * *

Felix is late coming back from lunch period too, because of course he is. It’s that kind of day, apparently. He doesn’t even bother reviewing dribbling with his following classes. There’s a whole year of this ahead of him and he’ll find a way to make up for it. He’ll find a way to feel something other than this miasma of grief and hopelessness.

There’s nothing but country on the radio stations that aren’t annoyingly staticky so he drives in silence. This time, all the lights he comes to are red, which does fit his mood better. Fits his reality better, truthfully. He’s somehow at a full stop now that he's finally gotten the job all his former classmates were clamoring for weeks before graduation. He doesn’t even know how he made it through the past four years. He couldn’t count the amount of times he’d considered dropping out before passing out over his notes, only to pull himself by the strings through another day come morning. 

It’s only Monday. There were four more days of this fog until the weekend, and if he could just make it until then, some poor unsuspecting bastard would be caught under the point of his sabre, conceding to another lesson. _Ah_ , there was a thought that he’d hoped would excite him more. Fencing was more of a passion than a potential career, but even the part-time instruction that had previously carried his motivation to continue his studies in physical education had become dull. He was aware of a problem that continued to worsen, and he wasn’t sure he could avoid the repercussions of it for much longer.

He couldn’t give a damn about his own suffering, but his son was a different story.

The key sticks when he thrusts it perhaps a little too roughly into the lock. He groans, wiggling it until it opens from the other side, slipping from his hand.

“Oh, good to see you Felix.” Dorothea’s expressive green eyes are framed by purple eyeshadow and two coats of mascara. Felix tries not to look into them. He doesn’t want any company, but it seems like he doesn’t have a choice. He focuses on freeing the key instead and, a full minute later, steps inside. He kicks his shoes off in the same corner he keeps them in for the duration of the workweek and scans her outfit. A long sleeved blouse—trim, but not skintight—and comfortable jeggings that wouldn’t take too long to shimmy out of. A night in then. Ingrid is already waiting for her on the couch with the Lord of the Rings trilogy stacked on the dining table and a huge bowl of popcorn mixed with caramel M&Ms. He shouldn’t stick around long.

“Felix, how was your first day of work?” Ingrid turns around to rest on her forearms, peeking over the back of the tanned leather abomination that seemed to stick to his ass no matter what bottoms he was wearing. The only upside about it was that it was free, but he preferred to watch things in his room anyway so whoever Ingrid wanted to makeout with on that caramel disguised death trap was fine by him. 

“What do you think?” He sighs, pinching his nose, and Ingrid knits her brows together sympathetically. “I can’t believe I cursed myself to a life full of watching teenagers ignore my butterfly stroke instructions in favor of sucking faces by the pool. I could have volunteered at the local community center if I wanted that.” 

He opens the fridge, pulling out a stick of celery liberally smeared with peanut butter and gnawing out some of his frustration. It’s better than his earlier bar, marginally. The cellulose strings were still a texture that took some getting used to. He’d probably scroll through reddit to find a replacement. Vegans really were resourceful with their substitution rabbit food nowadays. 

Dorothea wisely doesn’t comment, but Ingrid tries to drag him into a conversation, and he doesn’t know how the brunette somehow knew when to stop poking him over the friend who’d practically lived with him all his life until she literally did. 

“Look on the bright side! You’ll be able to pay off those loans a lot faster than your classmates. And I’m sure the kids will warm up to you. There’s plenty of time to get to know them before winter break.”

Felix grumbles, stuffing his mouth full of more watery greens so he doesn’t have to answer. He grabs another Gatorade and shuts himself in his room, laying out the clothes he plans to change into for the night. He places Glenn’s old watch on his dresser. He’d have to take it in to get looked at Saturday. He needed as much time as he could get with Dante this week or he’d really explode.

He hops into the shower, thinking about the face of the stranger who ruined his day again. There were freckles—too many to count in his rage—all over it. Bright brown eyes that carried a sheepish glint. Strong jaw and a thick neck and broad shoulders.

He was hot. _Fuck._ But so what? He’d still destroyed a family heirloom. If Felix ever saw him again— _if_ he were to happen to go in because he needed a cup of coffee in a pinch—he’d demand the stranger pay in some way or another for making him have to fix it. 

He bangs his forehead against the wall. Dark, wet strands stick to his cheeks and tickle his nose until he’s coughing from the water that inadvertently made its way down his throat. God, he felt like shit. The steam only worsened his blooming headache. He’s quick to finish his business and dry off, shoving some essentials into an overnight bag. 

He knows he doesn’t have to ask to stay with them, but he still feels awkward throwing the faded Nike logo over his shoulder and turning to the side to avoid brushing against the huge rose bushes along the cracked stone path to the Dominic’s front door. He knocks, once, with his free hand, before crouching to catch the black blur that barrels out of the partial crack to dig its way into his armpit.

“Here!” A piece of paper is thrust into his face before he can react. Felix blinks, letting the bag fall to reach for it, smoothing the crumpled sides. 

It’s him. A striking resemblance—If he were a spaghetti stick man with olives for eyes, pointing his toothpick at a goldfish glued to what looked suspiciously like dried basil marinara sauce. The cat hair clumped on top of the cracked wheat that was supposed to be his head was a nice touch. Felix knew that allowing Dante to adopt Lucifer was going to lead to some interesting situations, but he definitely couldn’t have foreseen this particular use.

He lowers it from obscuring his sight, and pulls his son in tighter. 

“Thank you.” He whispers, hoisting him up with one arm to rest over his shoulder. He drags the bag in and abandons it at the walkway, using his palm to rustle the back of Dante’s downy head instead. Dante giggles, throwing it back and growling playfully. He squirms the closer they get to the living room, eventually challenging him to wrestle as soon as he’s set down. 

Felix hands the collage off to Mercedes and accepts, starting by tickling him until he’s breathless, then allowing him to get the first pounce. He’s pretty strong for his age. Small, but there were ways to use that to his advantage. He’s fast, and slippery, and gives Felix a hell of a time keeping up with his energy even with how in shape he keeps himself. It’s a good twenty minutes before Felix cries uncle and the triumphant preschooler raises his bright azure blue eyes to the ceiling to _howl._

How he’d somehow created such a terrifying monster with a demure woman like Mercedes as his mother defied understanding. 

Dante crawls into his lap as Felix accepts a glass of water from Mercedes. The toddler starts to fumble with the remote. High pitched noises of children playing and magical sound effects assault his ears as he tries to follow what Mercedes was telling him about her new employee. Apparently, his extensive knowledge of expensive imported teas and his asymmetrical purple hair made him stand out enough to be hired on the spot. He sounds exhausting. Honestly, Felix didn’t care to know much about coffee _or_ tea; all caffeine is equal as long as it’s inside him within seconds and working. 

Annette joins them one episode later, bounding in with as much energy and colors as the band that was currently wiggling their way around the stage. Dante squeals, making grabby hands at her until she picks him up and Felix scoots over, “accidentally” sitting on the power button.

It’s a small victory that paves a road to his demise, because suddenly Annette is talking with all of the characteristics of a woodpecker and Mercedes is feeding her tree trunk after tree trunk to carve. Felix is caught in between the lively conversation, zoning out then snapping back to attention whenever Dante tugged on his sleeve to be passed back and forth over the three laps. 

He does contribute— he tries. Keeping Dante busy was a job enough in itself, and the Dominics were used to this dynamic. Felix swings him around off to the side of the couch until he’s wobbling toward the kitchen, whining for string cheese. He grabs two, and Felix accepts the offering of a solidified dairy stick warmed in the middle by tiny, sticky fingers. He sets it by the pasta portrait to be disposed of after he puts Dante to bed. He’s not going to think any harder about it. 

“Didn’t you say he drew me something?” Felix asks, one hand supporting Dante’s back as the demon child twirls and mouths at the cheese on the high barstool overlooking the kitchen counter. The longer Felix looked at the artwork, the more convinced he became that he was going to keep it, frame it, and protect it from the harsh light of day only to have it surface when Dante visits him. 

“Oh, that’s right!” Annette peers over to smile at the same crinkled paper that was looking more and more like a Classico Picasso. “He must have made that one with Mercie while I was in my zoom meeting. Leon did you want to show him the other picture now?”

Dante nods, accepting her arms to lower him to the ground again before he takes off to his bedroom. Felix follows at a much slower pace, relieved by the temporary silence and the comfort of Annie clinging to his arm. The pictures of them from before his college days are still hung in the hallways, interspersed with others of just her and Mercedes, the three of them, and then the four. His favorite is the one hanging just outside of Dante’s door, his impossibly tiny face scrunched and uncomfortable, with tufts of jet black hair—that later softened to his deep sapphire sheen—poking out under the tilted newborn cap given away at every hospital. Mercedes often remarked that he looked exactly like Felix when he was woken up from his naps.

Felix couldn’t disagree. It filled him with a sense of pride he would have scoffed at five years ago. Even with how carefully they’d planned the pregnancy, life—and his feelings about it—had become unpredictable. 

Dante peeks his head around the corner, hands fisting something held behind his back. He shuffles over shyly and nudges a toe into Felix’s ankle, urging his father to crouch down. His behavior when presenting his more personal creations was a stark contrast to pretty much any other interaction they had. His feisty son was a softie at heart. Must have gotten that trait from Mercedes.

Felix smiles as encouragingly as he can, and it must be enough, because Dante reveals the gift— holding it out flat like a treasure map. The two black wolves are close, side by side, with the smaller one bumping its head against the larger’s shoulder. Rough, shaky handwriting slants underneath them, taking up half of the page. _Dante Leon Dominic_ is a little neater and smaller—Felix assumed Mercedes had something to do with that. To the left of it, in blood-red penciling, _D A D._

“I like it. Thank you, son.”

A fluffy obsidian tail brushes against Felix’s thigh, crooked, tempting, and dangerous. Lucifer purrs against him, front paws pressing their nails through the fabric of his pants trying to climb into his lap. Felix gives an obligatory pet—okay, maybe more than one—before he takes the masterpiece, and lets Dante lead him into his bedroom to show him the new lego set from Target.

* * *

Spending the night at the Dominics is no problem, as Felix suspected. The pull out couch is ready for him even before he asks and is leagues more comfortable than the confectionery disaster he has at home. Mercedes’ spicy jalapeño cheese buns taste so much better than what he gags down during the daytime, and it’s been a stressful one so he helps himself to two. The three of them sit around the raised marble slab, slowly making their way through dinner. The sympathetic couple listens to him unload all of the complaints he’d been holding on to, and it does help. He’s lucky to have kept them both as close friends, and to retain the intimacy they need to raise their son together in thriving, albeit separate households. Talking to them about his troubles is comfortable, but not necessarily easy, and it doesn’t fill in a section of his loneliness. 

Felix was feeling fine by the end of it...until he rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands and Annette brought up his lack of a watch.

He bristles, and jerks away from her touch. Her lips purse in concern but she retains the sense to keep quiet. She waits for him to finish before going back with him to clear the table, humming a soft lullaby of her own creation as she pours the soap into the dishwasher. 

“Some... _Barista_ bumped into me this morning.” He hisses the occupation like a slur, aggressively drying his hands in the dainty pink floral towelette. “He spilled coffee on it. I’ll have to get it looked at this Saturday to know the full extent of the damage.”

“Oh Felix.” Annette takes the towel from him, clucking sadly. “I’m so sorry.”

Felix drops his bag on the ratty recliner by the couch. “I’m fine.” _He’s not._ “I’ve been pissed about it all day and I just want to go to bed.” He pulls out his pajamas and toothbrush, and makes for the bathroom.

“Mercie and I have something else for you when you’re done!” Annette yells, and Mercedes shushes her, pointing past Felix at Dante’s room. Felix hums, looking at the closed door fondly. They could fuss all they want. Dante sleeps like the dead. 

Felix usually does as well, but he was going to have a harder time tonight, because the day from hell wasn’t over yet—and the bombshell he wasn’t expecting to hit him caught him off guard, full force in the chest. 

“Annette and I found this group for you Felix.” Mercedes’ calm soprano shouldn’t cause chills to spread through his limbs. He’s pulled deeper when she hands the small laminated card to him. 

_Single Fathers Support Group. Meets T/Th from 6PM-8PM. Visit our website or call for more information. See back of card._

“No.” Felix immediately refuses.

“Felix.” Annette’s voice is filled with concern. “You’ve been unhappy for some time now.”

Felix studies the ceiling, unable to howl his cauldron of emotions as Dante did earlier. They were going to convince him to do this. He already knew it. It was only a matter of time before they sprung another, worse, source of socialization on him. God, it’s a pain in the ass to have people who care.

“I am.” He admits, still looking at the nauseating texture. “But it has nothing to do with you two. Or Dante.”

“Of course not.” Mercedes’s voice is soft enough to coax him halfway down again. “We love you, and we know that’s not going to change, but there are things we just can’t help you with.”

“We all need someone in our lives that we can relate to.” Annette continues, reaching out to squeeze his knee. It’s a testament to how long he’s known her that he doesn’t violently retract from the contact. “Mercie and I enjoy some of the same things together, and we share some interests with you as well, but...we know you’re lonely.” She looks up at him, moisture forming in the corner of her eyes.

 _Shit._ Well, that stings. He didn’t think it was so obvious. 

Mercedes rubs Annette’s back. “I think it’s a good idea to try. Just once should be enough to see if it helps.” 

Felix smooths the sheets anxiously, bringing his face back to engage with them again. They curl closer on the edge of the bed, still leaving a few feet for him to change his mind, but he sighs, and indicates for them to keep coming, allowing his chin to rest upon Annette’s head when she buries her face into his chest. Her hair smells strongly of strawberries, and it's the only saccharine scent that doesn’t irritate his nose.

“We love you Felix.” She wails, wiping her eyes. “I just want to see you happy again.” 

“Love you too, Annie.” He murmurs, heart half-broken by the multiple staggering truths he was being forced to face. His arms are steadied behind Annette’s back by Mercedes’s fingers. “I’ll go tomorrow. But only once.” 

* * *

He was going to regret this. He could just tell. It was the same feeling plummeting in his stomach that he had yesterday, but this time there was no watch to be ruined. It was just him, and his stupid, pounding heart and too-tight lungs in his chest. Why was he nervous? Nothing was going to happen. He promised them he’d be here, so he is. It’s that simple.

Except that it’s not. He’s never been good at socializing with others. He needs something to bridge the gap and open connections, and even then, upkeep was difficult. Sports was a good way to do that, and so he wasn’t necessarily _alone_ growing up. It’s how he grew close to Ingrid, met Annie, and kept some semblance of contact with others while pushing himself through college. Physical education was the safe route to choose that would allow him to raise his son without losing his mind, and yet, he still felt as if there was something missing from his very full schedule. 

He hadn’t been on a date in years. It ended badly, on top of it. His sex drive was pretty low, and it was difficult to find someone who respected that in the gay community. He was so tired of having to explain it that he kind of just...fell off the face of the scene. He was too busy anyway—for half of a decade—with Dante and his diploma. One by one, people disappeared from his life once they realized how unavailable he was. Now, he had to figure out how to relate to others again when he was stuck in a place where he wasn’t even sure who he was. 

The analog clock by his radio reads 6:01. He’s late again. Felix smooths his sweater one last time before swinging his door open, pausing to arrange everything in his rainbow unicorn fanny pack. It wasn’t the most embarrassing thing he owned, nor was this the most inappropriate situation he’d been coerced to wear it in. Dante picked it out at the fair two summers ago, named it “Gwitter” and insisted that it was a “pwesent for daddy”. Annette made up a song about it that same night and now he couldn’t say no to either of them when they requested he use it. At least Dante’s name was sharpied onto the side so he could point at it and glare at anyone who dared snicker in his direction. 

The rec center is old, and it's cold as hell, even with his bulky sweater on. Felix frowns, pushing open the door, and again when he’s forced to ask where the support group meeting is because nobody thought to put out any signs and the information isn’t included on the card.

 _“Just down the hall and right on your left.”_ Those are two opposite directions, but okay. He edges forward, even more anxious now that he is officially five minutes late. After what feels like forever and a day, he finds a taped piece of paper dangling over the small window of a cracked door, where an obnoxious laugh offends his ears to the point of planting the seed of a headache. He reaches for the handle, holding his breath, chastising his nerves, and loses some of it when his hand swipes air as the door is pulled inward. 

Felix collides with another body, something that shouldn’t feel familiar, something that shouldn’t rip at the veil clouding his memory, flooding his eyes with red as he looks up to drown in a river of shocked chocolate brown. 

“Ah, sorry! Oh...you—um, hi.”

He should have trusted his instincts. Barista boy was going to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thefriedpipes)! Come talk more about fe3h with me 🤗


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Sylvain’s turn in clown town!

Sylvain’s days usually start like this: the tickle of messy strawberry blonde hair brushing his forehead, high-pitched giggles slicing through the shell of his ears, a small finger shoved up his nose that has him sneezing into sudden consciousness— rubbing the scratchy, dry corners of his eyes because he got so tired he forgot to use visine after removing his contacts. Sometimes, the scene is accompanied by a groan, pushed out of him by impatient pleas for pancakes, knees digging into the sensitive flesh of his stomach. For six years now, he’s never needed an alarm clock. The poking and prodding of his favorite little imp is enough to drag him out of bed, chasing the sunrise. 

Gabriela Elaine Gautier is the most terrifying girl Sylvain has ever met— a feisty changeling conveniently disguised as a tiny human. Standing at a meager three feet, nine inches and impressive thirty-eight pounds, there’s no one who knows her that she doesn’t have wrapped around every ounce of her defiance. Sylvain throws her over his shoulder, jogging down the stairs, smiling at her hiccups when he places her in the small chair decorated with pink and gold ribbons. He busies himself adjusting the worn paper crown hanging over her forehead so it won’t pin her bangs down. 

“What does the princess want in her pancakes this morning?” He asks, yelling over the clang of dishes, frying pans, and Gabriela’s newest melody—charmingly similar to one of the Dragon Tales reruns he’d watched with her last night. Her humming grows more intense as she scrunches her face in contemplation. It was difficult for her to concentrate with all the colorful noises of early morning to distract her, but it had been the same fillings/toppings for weeks now, so there wasn’t much of a reason to take long deciding. Sometimes Sylvain was convinced that she just liked being loud. 

Still, Sylvain gives her the opportunity to reflect. The routine was important to her, and there was something soothing to Sylvain in the pattern of it as well. He relied on the memory of these moments to get him through the dark periods of the day, when the demons of his past and present doubts slipped through the cracks of his downtime. 

Predictably, she requests blueberries and whipped cream for the topping. Sylvain whisks the batter and hums along to the remix of various cartoon intros, occasionally tapping some cutlery against the stainless steel bowl to keep the beat going. By the time he’s pouring it into the pan, she’s bumping against his side again, gripping the top of the counter and swinging her legs in an attempt to climb up. Sylvain’s palm covers her head, pressing her down again— lightly chiding her. He can’t keep a smile from breaking through though, when she hugs him tightly around the knees, squatting to look up at him with the kind of eager eagle eyes she only reserved for the moments she asked for something new.

“Can I have syrup today? Jason eats blueberry pancakes too and he said it was good!”

“Absolutely.” Sylvain agrees, squirting a liberal amount of maple syrup on the plate, then nudging his way over to the table with her sitting on his toes, screaming in delight. She slinks off—unwinding more like a badger than a snake—earning another rip in her crown by snagging it on her throne. She’s still toying with the small hole seconds later when she begins to shovel an entire cake into her mouth, dribbling syrup down the sides of her face.

“Gabs, c’mon. Don’t do that.” Sylvain grimaces as she turns to him with a sticky mess already smeared high across her cheeks, blobs staining the edge of the crown and wayward strands failing to stay put. He sighs, resisting the urge to wipe her down from head to foot. “This is why we eat before we wash our face, I guess.”

She somehow finishes her plate before he’s sat down to start his own, proceeding to lick at the syrup and cream coating her fingers. Sylvain rolls his eyes affectionately, reaching out to grab her hand and wipe it off on one of the paper towels littering the battlefield. 

“Hey!” She protests, pushing her crown completely to the side until it’s covering one eye. “I wasn’t done with that.”

“Yeah, you were.” Sylvain retorts breezily, dipping a napkin into his untouched glass of water before running it through the slots of her fingers. “Was it as good as Jason said?”

“Better!” Gabriela grins, yanking her crown back, shaking her bangs until they’re covering one eye again. “I have to tell him on the way to school—daddy, can I? Do we have time?”

Sylvain glances at his watch, adding the inconsistencies of traffic into the other factors of his calculation. He doesn’t know why he bothers. It’s not like he could say no. He’ll find some other task to abandon so they could squeeze it in. 

“Only if you brush your teeth right away and get your clothes laid out on your bed. I’ll be up in a few minutes to make sure you’ve got all that syrup off your face.”

* * *

Gabriela races through the hallway, Mimikyu backpack dragging where she clutches it against her hip with one arm. Three doors away from theirs, a whine that devolves into thumps of labored wheezing greets the energetic appearance of Gautier’s finest princess on her first day of first grade.

Sylvain knocks properly, restraining his daughter from nicking her tiny fists on the thoroughly scratched hardwood. She doesn’t have much time to pout about it, because soon enough she’s on her back, laughing hysterically at the enthusiastic snout huffing the tightly bound buns pinned on the sides of her head. A flat, eager tongue cleans any dried syrup that Sylvain had somehow overlooked.

Jason, her best friend. The blind, three legged hound with sciatica. His ears drooped just about as much as his spine, but he’d perfected the art of keeping them clear of being trampled under his atypical wobbles. 

Jason’s owner, Claude, was the most brilliant man Sylvain had ever met. Smart as hell, handsome, and too kind-hearted to be single— but Claude has said the same thing about him. No matter how tired Sylvain was when he came home from one of his jobs, he always made it a habit to take a few minutes to catch up with his neighbor. Some nights, the gentle couple Ashe and Dedue would join them from the second floor and they’d catch up for hours over tea or cards. On weekends, Claude would refuse to let Sylvain leave without a round of chess. The other two would then take to baking and placing the occasional bet while Gabs fixed Jason’s woeful, deep brows with a Barbie brush— chittering away.

Today, however, Sylvain didn’t have time for much more than a few sentences confirming when he’d be over later. Gabby wraps her arms around Jason’s thick neck—wailing as she does every time she’s forced to leave him—stopping to accept a final lick on her cheek with the promise that she’ll leave some syrup there next time.

“She won’t.” Sylvain assures Claude, pulling her backpack over her other shoulder and adjusting the straps so it won’t fall. Claude laughs, giving a few pats to the geriatric Basset. He waves them off, standing in the doorway until they’ve turned the corner.

Potential plans with Claude wander toward the back of Sylvain’s mind while he is driving. The reoccurrence of red lights is more irritating than it should be when he’s preoccupied and already on edge from squinting through the fog. 

The weather isn’t too unusual for Waterbury, though the day itself feels as if it will be. There’s nothing he can specifically pinpoint to support it. It’s unlike Sylvain to allow vague uncertainty to cloud his concentration. Music would help break up the haze, but a decent portion of his dashboard was still unresponsive after the peanut butter and jelly sandwich fiasco last week. Gabriela likes to feed things when he isn’t looking. A radio isn’t even close to the strangest item she’s subjected to her lunch.

She’s quieter than expected in the exact situation he’d welcome her distractions. He’d usually be well into his third full conversation with his daughter by now, but the closer Gabriela came to her new school the more introspective her mood. The only sign of her presence is the consistent whir of a fidget spinner. 

After a few half-hearted swipes of his playlist, Sylvain resigns himself to the eccentric gloom of on again off again traffic in the slow burning silence. 

The whirring stops just as he reaches another standstill. Sylvain checks the mirror to see what Gabriela’s new focus is and catches her smearing brand new tubs of play dough over the teeth of the fidget spinner. He raises his eyebrow, watching her roll a lumpy head with two divots for eyes. She shoves it into the hole in the middle and shrieks with laughter when it flicks specks of pink, yellow, and green over the backseat. 

It was impossible for Sylvain to think the world was boring when he was around her. 

Impossible as it seems, they arrive early. He’d prepared for there to be a slew of other parents trying to see their children off making parking a nightmare, but there isn’t. He’d stay and walk around the school with her a few times if it wasn’t for his interview. She asks him to anyway, just so she can wish him good luck and hear him tell her he loves her again. 

“Daddy.” She whispers gravely in Sylvain’s ear while he’s unbuckling her from her car seat. “I want to be a King today, instead of a Princess.”

“Oh yeah?” He sets her on the ground, squatting low to fix her hair up. Jason’s slobber was the perfect stiffening agent. Maybe the buns would survive into the afternoon, after all. She glares at him, twisting away to mess her bangs up again as soon he’s through.

“Stop!” Gabriela grabs the deflated paper crown from the backseat of Sylvain’s scarlet Audi, mashing it onto her head. “I can’t be a King without my crown.”

“Of course you can.” He winks at her, brushing his own bangs back. Hand in hand, they walk to the door painted with the faded yellow numbers: 103. “Your dad’s royalty too, you know.” 

* * *

Sylvain only knows a handful of things about coffee and tea, and he can count on his fingers which ones were a product of a frantic google search five minutes before his interview was scheduled. The dilapidated building wasn’t difficult to find, though it was a bummer to look at, and unfortunately even worse from the inside. The lighting was about as dim as human vision could pick up on without developing a headache. He’d half expected the manager to come out wrapped in a shawl carrying a golden calandra. Sylvain leans against the door, giving a wide berth to the couches and chairs covered in stained burgundy fabric stretched thin over weathered mahogany. He’s professional enough not to wince as his interviewer, Hubert’s, stiff, gloved hand—still freezing—grips him with an unnatural strength. 

There’s no humor in his cold eyes, so Sylvain would have to come up with some other way to impress him. It’s fine, he’s good at making up miracles on the spot. As long as there wouldn’t be more of the same uncomfortable furniture in the back. There’s no way that it wouldn’t make his skin itch...

Just a normal chair. Sylvain has never been more relieved to feel the cool metal of his belt chilling him as it rides up under his dress shirt. Hubert notes his polished appearance with what Sylvain _thinks_ is a nod, skimming through his resume with all of the excitement of a sewage worker inspecting a tangled colony of rats.

“When would you be able to start?” 

The question throws Sylvain off somewhat, seeing as it's a few minutes into the interview and nearly the first one. Hubert’s aim is imperceptible as his aura. Sylvain has worked a lot of odd jobs with even odder managers, but he’s never experienced someone so calm and dispassionate offer him an immediate position. He’s wary of the sudden nature, but he really needs the income—even temporarily—so Gabby could get some school supplies while he caught up on some debts. 

“Right now, if you’ll have me.” Sylvain’s purr is as low as the churning in his stomach, cursing internally at his inability to act like a decent member of society for just ten seconds. 

Hubert hardly reacts, however, simply gathering his paperwork and asking for proper identification. Sylvain searches his wallet, feeling dumbstruck at his luck. This little cafe closed by 1:30 in the afternoon, giving him plenty of time to prepare to pick up Gabriela. It was halfway between their apartment and school, and they even had employee parking in a secluded lot behind the building. 

Yeah it was old, and yeah it was a little dusty, but he could make it lively. He’s been up against much worse. Hubert seemed to be the stuffy type that sat in the back, filing, plotting murder, making spreadsheets of coffee bean statistics from all of the rainforests around the globe or whatever. Sylvain could work with that. 

“Excellent.” Hubert stands, pushing all of the paperwork he needs to process under one paper clip. “I believe I owe you a brief tour. I’ll fetch an apron, and we can discuss the finer matters along the way.” 

The matters he and Hubert discuss are fine. The background check and drug test—which he was not expecting—should also be fine. What is not fine is that twenty minutes into his shift, Sylvain runs chestfirst into a disaster.

“I am so sorry, sir— can I do anything? Here, let me..” Sylvain babbles, hardly registering the burn of coffee spilling down his chest past the panic of his blunder. He just got this job and he’s already fucked up—he can’t afford this. He can’t—

“Idiot.” The stranger seethes, aggressively refusing his handkerchief. Sylvain is struck still more by the enchanting pull of his eyes, narrowed in the promise of retribution— a bright amber as vivid as the full setting sun. Such a stare fits right in here, at Hresvelg with Hubert, though Sylvain wouldn’t dream of saying it even if they were to meet again. 

Sir Glares a Lot ends up refusing the free coffee Hubert offers him, storming out, and Sylvain spends the rest of his shift with his head down between customers—thinking about whether he’ll take Gabby to McDonalds or Wendys before he drops her off with Claude to finish her homework while he heads off to his second job. Whatever gets you through the day. 

Hubert is, surprisingly, kinder than Sylvain expected him to be about the situation. 

“Happens to the best of us.” He softly shrugs out of his apron, hanging it on a hook by the back kitchen door. Sylvain is sharp when it comes to spying on people’s natures—superficial and hidden. Hubert is a reasonable man, in that he doesn’t do things without a premeditated reason. It took Sylvain all of a ten minute interview to pick that out of the hat. 

Hubert retrieves an old faded black and moth-bitten coat, ridiculously heavy even for the weather. He fumbles with the buttons with a dour expression while Sylvain gathers his own, lightweight sweater. “I’ll call you tonight with the rest of your schedule. Thank you for being willing to work on such short notice. Hresvelg has been a family run business for many years, but some of the staff have recently suffered from illness and we require some extra assistance.” 

Sylvain nods, opening the door for him, then following silently. Hubert scowls at the sky as if there was still too much sun. There honestly might be. God, is he pasty. Sylvain shakes his head as they part ways to get into their separate cars. 

Cryptic. Spooky Vampire Vibes sure knows how to keep someone waiting for the exposition when taking his exit. Sylvain is intrigued, but doesn’t want to push his luck. Not today, and not when he’s in a hurry to get to Gabby’s school before the traffic sets in again. 

* * *

Gabby asks for McDonalds. It’s the third time this past week he’s had to vacuum salt out of the backseat of his car. She’s super cooperative though, when it comes to this—and only this. He drops her off on Claude’s couch, pulling the loose buns free and handing her a brush before kissing her on both cheeks. 

“Be good for me, Gabs.” Sylvain claps Claude on the shoulder before bending to scratch Jason behind the ears. “I’ll be back in a few hours for dinner.” He promises all three of them. He’s quick and efficient when it comes to cleaning pools, and after years with this company they’ve granted him the liberty to pick his own hours. There are only two clients today, and they’re close together in Prospect. 

The clouds have broken into little puffs by the time he arrives at the house of his first client, and a fair amount of sunshine warms Sylvain enough for him to take his shirt off. He hums the songs that have been stuck in his head since breakfast time, already thinking about dinner. Claude invited them to stay, and said he’d order a pizza—he even refused to take any of the money Sylvain tried to pull out of his wallet. Between him and Ashe and Dedue, Sylvain feels more supported by friends than he ever did by blood. 

Leaving his family in New Haven behind in order to provide a safe environment for his daughter was something Sylvain would never regret. They’d never fully accepted him and tried to bully him out of every step of finding comfort in his identity. When he became pregnant, they were convinced it was a turning point for him to de-transition and were pretty loud with their disgust in deciding to keep her while continuing to live as the man that he is. That was the last straw for Sylvain; the way they talked about his daughter like she was a tool to be used to in their tired transphobic tantrums was something he couldn’t forgive. 

The days are long and his body aches, but Sylvain is determined to make a good life for them. 

He wipes the sweat from his brow, setting the tools down to check his text messages and smiles. Right at the top there’s a picture from Claude of Gabby curled up against Jason on the ground, holding the crown on his head. The hound’s droopy eyes are patient, accustomed to the point of boredom. After fourteen years of living, with the past three of them spent in the near daily presence of little Goblin Gautier, Sylvain would probably react with the same indifference. 

“ _Gabs says she’s giving up the throne.”_

Sylvain chuckles and packs his equipment away, stopping to check out with the client before he plugs the next address into his GPS. It’s a good fifteen minutes before he’s able to respond.

_“Oh? She doesn’t want to be King anymore?”_

He misses the light of the notification until he’s waiting on the doorstep after a few insistent knocks and remembers to check. 

_“I AM A NIGHT NO W ( THIS IS GABBY BTW HOW DO U SPEL NIGHT? WITH A SOWRD?)”_

One of the first things Gabby tells him when he returns is the difference between the words knight and night. Claude probably had her google it when she complained that he didn’t respond. It’s not that he meant to ignore it, it’s just that right then, the door opens, a bright blue eye pierces him, and Sylvain isn’t sure he remembers how to spell anything anymore. 

* * *

The pizza is cold by the time Claude lets him in. Sylvain is dazed, unsure of how much he remembers from the point of stepping into the second client's backyard up until now. He hasn’t eaten much today, especially with how active he’s been, and that can’t have helped, but what’s really messing with his mind at the moment is the invitation. 

_Dimitri._ He rolls the name around on his tongue without speaking it. It feels...good. There’s a weight to it that he likes. Sylvain picks off the anchovies that Gabby immediately snatches from his plate to offer to Jason, and chews without contributing much to the conversation. Claude notices—they all do—but waits for Sylvain to breach his own silence.

“I was invited somewhere.” He blurts out. “Tomorrow night, with someone. I don’t know if he’s really interested or if it’s a date, at least, if it is it would be kind of weird.” He scratches the back of his neck, frowning at the two abandoned crusts in his lap. “I don’t know.” 

“Woah.” Claude supplies melodramatically, grabbing the rest of the anchovies from Gabby’s fist. He throws them in the trash, ignoring her whine, before placing the rest of the pizza in a Tupperware on the top shelf of the fridge. “Was this at the creepy coffee shop you texted me about after you dropped Gabs off?” 

Sylvain cringes, remembering the angry amber eyes from his early morning skirmish. “No. It was the new client I had today.” 

Claude flutters his eyelashes, joining Ashe and Dedue’s curious but polite smiles on the couch. “Oh? Well tell us about it, Stud. Did he confess his undying love for you as soon as you pulled your shirt off and pounded three back to back bottles of water—squeezing the last bit of it over your bulging pecs?” 

Sylvain laughs openly, pulling Gabriela up onto his lap. The top of her head still smells clean and fresh despite the pizza sauce smeared in it. It’s easier to breathe when she’s near him. It’s easier to think straight when she’s looking up at him, twisting the fingers of his hand. 

“He talked to me the entire time I was working. He has a daughter too. A few years younger than Gabs here.” Sylvain pats her head until she protests, catching her when she tries to wiggle away. “She’s very sweet. A little shy, but I got to meet her at the end when we exchanged numbers.” 

Claude reclines with a mischievous look in the crook of his eyebrow, while Dedue and Ashe lean forward to run through the more practical details.

“Well, Sylvain that sounds great!” Ashe is as enthusiastic as ever, while Dedue focuses on the issue at hand. “Where did he invite you?” 

Sylvain pulls his phone out to review the message Dimitri sent him.“There’s a single dads support group he wants to go to, but he said he was nervous to show up by himself so I told him I’d go with him. I wasn’t really thinking things through when I did.” 

Now Claude is fully invested, legs uncrossed, hands in his lap as he scoots closer. 

“Let me get this straight. He asked the first guy who shows up to clean his pool to go to a single dads group with him, introduces you to his daughter, and gives you his phone number—and you’re still second guessing yourself about whether or not he’s interested in you?” 

“When you say it like that…” Sylvain trails off, resisting the urge to cover the flush of his cheeks. “yeah.” 

Claude grins, wide as the horizon.“Sounds perfect for you.” 

Hubert is, unknowingly, helpful in texting Sylvain his schedule so he can duck away from any other awkward questions. He’s off tomorrow, which means he’s going to have a lot of time to kill being nervous. A lot of time to think about two men he didn’t expect to come across today, each offering a confusing amount of emotions he was too tired to pick up and unpack.

He lets Gabby sleep with him that night, and stays up late stroking her hair. It’s easier with her here, to remind him of all the little things that are worth it. It’s easier, but it’s still pretty damn hard. 

* * *

Apparently, he needed to sleep more than anything else needed to get done, because he wakes up for the first time in months to an empty bed and a little bowl of dry Rice Krispies on his dresser next to a piece of paper with huge capital letters spelling “brekfest”. He groans, avoiding the crumbs of already crunched pieces around his bed along with the trail that leads him down the stairs and into an even bigger mess of multiple cereal boxes strewn throughout the kitchen.

A crownless Gabriela sits there, in his chair, with her own bowl, twice as large as his, swirling the milk around in her mouth. She grins, spitting some of it out in a giggle when she sees him carefully avoiding the fault line to get to her. 

“Gabs, it’s 9AM, you should be in school.” He sighs, moving the bowl and silverware to the sink. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” 

Gabriela looks down at her swinging legs. “You looked tired, Daddy. I made you breakfast, but I left it there. I didn’t want to make you sad.” 

Sylvain stops, one hand still curled around the spoon he needs to drop into the sink. It takes a few seconds for him to finish the task, a few seconds more for him to settle into the serene mask of his farce and walk back. 

He lifts her up and lets her throw her arms around his neck as he hugs her tightly. It’s easier to pass his choking off as a playful act this way. “I’m okay, Gabby. I’m not sad.” 

It’s a lie, but he’s used to it. He doesn’t need to add _six year old daughter worrying about him_ to his list of things that could give him a heart attack. Sylvain wishes she couldn’t read him at all, but she’s every bit as perceptive as he is with plenty of time left to surpass him. That’s the real Gautier curse—carrying emotional intuition as if it was a burden, lost in the polarity of your head and heart. 

“Do I have to go to school if you don’t have to go to work?” Her eyes are round blobs of honey brown, tinged with mauve in the sunlight, the glimmer reminding him so much of her mother than his heart twinges in his chest. He couldn’t refuse either of them. 

“Not today.” He decides, putting her down. He leads her carefully through the field of snap, crackle, and pop until they’re upstairs again, then hands her a little broom and dustpan.“Instead, you’re going to help me clean up.” 

She’s pretty stoned faced after that. 

Sylvain spends most of the day catching up with the housework he’s been putting off and entertaining Gabriela’s extremely active imagination. He’s missed this. Honestly, he doesn’t have a problem with working wherever in order to get the bills paid, but he does have a problem with how little time he’s been able to spend with his daughter lately. What if he misses the best moments of the most formative part of her years? He’s all she has. 

He texts Dimitri intermittently, swallowing the butterflies before Gabby asks about them. The guy seems nice, though his speech can come off as antiquated. Think backwards smiley faces instead of emojis and plenty of ellipses...It’s kind of cute. Sylvain can tell that he’s trying to come out of his comfort zone and he respects that. 

It’s 6PM before he knows it and he’s spent the past ten minutes sweating alone in a room full of strangers, hand digging in his pocket for his phone again to check if Dimitri was on his way. The group message he shares with Ashe, Dedue, and Claude is full of encouraging statements that he reviews in lieu of a TOA or any new information. It’s stuffy, and no one seems in a hurry to start. Sylvain needs to move around when his anxiety gets to him like this, so he sticks his phone back into his pocket and figures he’ll wait outside for a bit until he finds Dimitri, then they can come back in together, as promised…

He makes the mistake of checking his phone when it vibrates rapidly again as he reaches for the doorknob. Claude’s flooded the chat with Spanish memes for the fourth time in the past hour and the amount of :///// he sees from Ashe after every picture is so ridiculous that he has to let go and laugh. He’s still catching his breath and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand when he opens the door to find himself knocked completely breathless by yet another unexpected collision. 

Eyes of golden burning coal are the first thing he registers, reaching for the phantom burn of coffee on his wrist. There’s no way that customer he spilled his tray on from Hvelsreg is here for the support group. There's no way. Is it fate, or merely his funeral day? 

He’s kind of hot. He’s kind of extremely hot. Sylvain didn’t know he had it bad for men who could murder him until this one stared him down—all glowering and perfect—in the doorway of the poorly ventilated rec center where he was supposed to be meeting the man of fairytales, or was it fantasies? Dreams, nightmares, whatever—it’s all REM. 

He should say something. He should definitely say something. 

“Ah, sorry! Oh...you—um, hi.”

Anything but that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thefriedpipes)! Come talk more about fe3h with me 🤗


End file.
